


Trial by Fire

by Hekateras



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dark, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-08
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekateras/pseuds/Hekateras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One does not leave the fire unscathed. The flames of love and heroics always leave their mark, on civilians and heroes alike, and as the Oblivion Crisis comes about some lives will be changed forever. A retelling of the Main Quest with more spice and twists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Thunder rippled through the snowy landscape as the thick crimson light swiftly chased away the shredded remains of blue in the sky. Swords clashed, steel and silver against the granite-hard daedric, heavy armored boots struggled to find purchase on the snow, molten in places by the heat of the Gates nearby. Blood sprayed fountain-like onto the slippery, sludge-like mixture of snow, mud and ashes as the soldiers of Cyrodiil stood their ground, the blows landing on their bodies ticking away the time left until utter defeat or bitter victory.

The vision shifted, diving into the flaming, rippling surface of the largest gate, chaotically sliding in between the spiky towers shooting up like daggers into the blood-stained sky. Hidden securely between a pair of gigantic gates stood the tallest tower of all, crowned with a radiating yellow light. A menacing siege machine with an inferno blazing in its mouth crawled slowly but steadily towards the looming Great Gate.

A figure, dark-clad and miniscule, sprinted across the bridge connecting two of the smaller towers. The figure skidded to a halt and turned, facing the dremora at its heels. It parried a crushing blow, staggering dangerously close to the edge of the narrow bridge, and kicked at the dremora, sending it toppling over into a hundred-foot fall.

The figure was now stumbling up a walkway hugging the inside of the great tower, limping with every step, a dremora arrow embedded in its upper leg. Its breath came in ragged gasps as its trembling hands sought support on the walls. The black armor was full of tears and rips, many growing patches of red. The cherry-red eyes had the haunted look of a chased animal to them, the bluish skin and the already red hair were matted with layers upon layers of blood, both its own and that of its enemies. Its features had the slightly angular look of elven heritage to them; arching eyebrows, somewhat slanted eyes, high, wide cheekbones, ordinary lips and an upturned nose with a very gentle bump on the bridge, far less pronounced than what was typical of the Dunmer.

The figure was now taking torturous steps to the brightly glowing orb several very long feet away. It stumbled, stretching across the floor, but miraculously, in a very slow, painful effort, rose up again, finally tearing the Great Sigil Stone away from its resting place atop the dais. The figure then collapsed, cradling the stone against the blood gushing wound in its chest as laces of flames ate away at the surroundings, each wave bringing more and more destruction and mayhem, the granite-hard walls crumbling and the dais ripped from the chains that held it up, a column of fire shooting up into the sky, the spine-like stairs ground into dust-...

_"For Lord Dagon!"_

Very abruptly, the vision gave way to an alternate reality, that of an assailant kicking open the heavy doors, intricate black armour glinting in the candlelight, the mace flashing as it struck down a guard. Behind it, several of its comrades battled four desperate Blades. The figure approached, then pounced, its masked face leering with eternal glee, the mace rushing forward to land the first and final blow.

The assassin fell, toppling majestically onto the luxurous carpet. A shimmering red momentarily veiled its body, then cleared, exposing a hooded figure clad in burgundy robes, the armor and weapon vanished without a trace. A throwing axe was embedded between its shoulder blades.

Retrieving her axe, Renault drew closer, followed by the remaining two Blades, the fourth lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

"Your Highness, you cannot stay here. We need to get you to a more secure location." Her voice was strained, but never lost the air of calm efficiency. Renault always kept a cool head, it seemed. "Our men are staging several distractions to aid your escape. We will take you through the secret passage leading out of the city." Her voice still held the respectful deference, but she never even pretended to ask for his permission. Emperor or not, keeping him safe was her duty and she preferred not to invite a direct order telling her otherwise. "Glenroy, check up ahead. Baurus, you take point."

Glenroy and Renault left the room, blades out and ready for any other unpleasant surprises the day had yet to offer. With Baurus behind him, Uriel followed, glancing wistfully at the dead Blade. Many more would die before this was over... And some would have an even higher price to pay.


	2. A Spoonful of Fate

For a very indeterminate while, it felt like another one of those restless nights, when you were still mostly asleep and only partially aware of getting tangled up in your bedsheets and half-heartedly trying to fight your way out of them, the disturbance not yet shaking you awake. Then, the darkness, dense and fuzzy like a pillow that's too big for you, reluctantly gave way to a very bleak awareness of something.

A something quite like the dim discomfort of aching joints and muscles... The feeling of cold and stale air intruding into your nostrils... And a desperate throbbing of your temples as your face is pressed against the rough surface of what surely has to be cold, hard stone...

Liallan stirred, jerking slightly as she tried to will control back into her body. She was sprawled on the floor in an awkward pose, her cheek against the stones and her limbs spread out, her knee numb from digging into the hard surface for what must have been hours. Opening her eyes and lifting her head to get a better idea of her surroundings, she winced with pain as her head gave a splitting throb, then winced again when her surroundings became clear. She was looking up into a ray of meager light filtering through a tiny barred window high up in the stone wall.

A barred window. How perfectly wonderful.

Another glance revealed the rest of the interior, if you could call it that - a shabby wooden table with a prehistoric pitcher, a niche in the wall with something resembling a bedroll, some not-quite-ornamental chains with shackles reaching down from the ceiling and a few bones in the corner to keep her company. A torch that looked like it hadn't burnt for centuries - entirely possible, given the Imperial City's age - sat in a rusty steel sconce on the wall. Everything was just like in the book.

Her mind still reluctant to address any issue outside of her immediate surroundings, Liallan scrambled upright, sitting up and quickly noticing the impressive assortment of injuries on her body when she nearly collapsed again. She inspected herself, noticing she was still sporting the tattered and blood-stained remains of the tunic and breeches she had worn beneath the armor. The wounds on her body were not bruises as much as flesh wounds, none of them properly healed, a few looking and feeling like they could reopen any moment...

Flesh wounds? Weren't prisoners always healed upon their arrival? They were, weren't they, you wouldn't someone sentenced to a lifetime spent in a filthy cage dying of wounds the next morning, unless...

Very belatedly Liallan came to wonder how it was that she was in prison, but the memories that now flowed back to her quickly provided her with a reasonable and unpleasant explanation.

Oh, that. Damn it, damn it all to Oblivion.

She now remembered it all - the ambush, the 'proposition', as he had somewhat typically put it, her refusal and the ensuing struggle and bodies littering the ground when the Legion had come storming in... It was his word against hers, the word of an established if corrupt noble against one of a shady Dunmer, and with the corruption blooming through the ranks of the Guard, they hadn't needed much of a reason, anyway. Knowing Cornelicus - which she didn't, gladly, but his actions that night were enough of an indication - the guards had probably deliberately neglected to heal her when throwing her into prison. He probably intended for her to die here, quietly and without a fuss.

Now more than ever, she was determined not to let him have his way.

She couldn't stay here - not that she was planning to, anyway.

First things first. She had never had any remarkable grasp of magic, but there were things you just had to learn. Her eyes unfocused as her lips mouthed the incantation for a basic healing spell. She gathered her magicka and sent it forth into her body, waiting for the familiar prickle of flesh knitting itself together...

Nothing happened.

The bluish light was there, but it just dispersed into the dank air like fog in the breeze. Liallan stared. She then concentrated her efforts on the one pathetic destruction spell she knew, pressing the magicka to form heat in her palm...

Instead, she felt it pouring away from her like sand through the fingers.

Liallan sighed. A magic dead-zone, it seemed. I've always wondered how they kept the magicians imprisoned. It seems I now have my answer.

Given that the magicka had to go somewhere and the cell couldn't suck it up forever, a really powerful magician could probably blast the enchantment to Oblivion, given enough time, but she was pretty much helpless.

Liallan stood up, using the wall for support, and approached the barred door to her cell. The cell opposite of her was very dimly lit, but she could make out another figure. That, however, was of no immediate concern. She pressed her face to the bars, doing her best to glance sideways at the corridor. It looked to be empty. Liallan knitted her brows as she tried to think past the headache and recall what she knew of the Imperial Prison. Past the usual over-dramatized tales of how it was a place of despair, impossible to escape from, she remembered the layout of the Prison District, with one main guard tower leading towards the exercise yard and the dungeon. If she was fast enough...

"I must surely be dead and in the Halls of Azura to look upon such a vision," the scraping voice of the prisoner from the other cell interrupted her reverie. She peered into the dark as a figure edged closer to the bars, the gaunt and worn but still recognisable features of a Dunmer becoming visible in the pale light. "You're a pretty one to end up in prison, kinswoman. Guess you never expected such a turn of fortunes, eh?"

"Good day to you as well," Liallan scoffed. She decided not to antagonize the other Dunmer. If she were to escape, she would probably need to free him too, if only to prevent him from screaming for the guards just to spite her. Speaking of escape, she hoped they hadn't...

"Manners, eh? I guess that's pretty much the last thing you still have in this rathole. You'll quickly see how useless they are, manners have never bought anyone a ticket out of prison."

Damn, she was trying to think and his voice was seriously grating on her nerves! It certainly didn't make her headache better, either.

Liallan glared at him silently as she recollected her trail of thought. With speed and luck, she might be able to simply run out the dungeon and then out of the guard tower, cross the district without being shot full of holes - that part worried her most, since she wasn't exactly in top form - and then reach the bridge connecting the Prison District with the rest of the city. From there, she could cross the lake and hide in the wilderness. It probably would be more prudent to wait until nightfall to carry out her daring escape plan, if it weren't for three reasons: First, what glimpse of the sky she currently had allowed her no idea of what time it was, and her wounds certainly wouldn't be getting better. Second, come nightfall the guards in the Prison District would double their numbers, specifically for cases like her. Either way, she would have to run for her life, which would certainly be easier if less guards were chasing after her and if she could see where she was going. And third, she was more or less sanguine that Cornelicus wanted her dead, if only to prevent her from blabbering about his dealings with the criminal world. For all she knew, there wasn't much stopping him from simply marching into the dungeon and burning her to a crisp with a fireball, later spinning some woeful tale of self-defense and attempted escape. The less time she spent here, the better.

It was set, then. She would attempt to escape here and now, counting on her luck to make it past the guards. Hircine knows she'd had to run fast for long periods of time before. She could probably make it, even as injured as she was.

Of course, all of this would be largely hypothetical and academic unless she could first make it out of her cell.

She reached up for her hair. The bun tied at the top of her head was now catastrophically disheveled, tangled locks the colour of venous blood cascading all over her back and shoulders. With a smooth motion Liallan untied the remains of her ponytail, cringing as the Dunmer droned on.

"What, girl? You think there'll be beauty shows down here? Or are you maybe hoping to charm your way out of prison, by way of special favours, hmm? Abandon the thought, they may be happy to take whatever you can offer, but you're not coming out of here..."

She brushed through her hair, fingering several very tight braids with a very set purpose, and smiled at the comforting feel of the metal under her fingertips as she pulled out two lockpicks. She knelt at the cell door, snaking her hands around to bars to to grasp for the lock, only to find...

Hells.

No lock.

"...But don't let that put you off. One of the guards here owes me a favor, I could get us put into the same cell, if you're still so eager to have some fun."

Oh, Divines. Take a sour psychopath with a sick imagination and a passion for monologues and put him in a cage for who-knows-how-many years, and then give him someone to spill his guts to. Between his droning, her headache and the lack of a pickable lock in her door, the last shreds of goodwill had snapped.

"Only if that fun involves slitting your filthy throat, n'wah!"

He didn't miss a beat, sneering at her insult and the lengthy string of colourful Dunmeri curses that followed as she examined what was in place of a lock. Some kind of intricate indentation, humming softly under her fingertips. A magical lock... She had pretty much no idea what would unlock it, even less how to obtain that object...

"Noticed that, did you? Seeing that look on your face almost makes being here worth it all. You really never wondered how it is that the best, most cunning of criminals never escape the Imperial Prison? Figured they were all just imbeciles and you were so special? Welcome to the ugly, filthy reality, girl. The only person who ever made it out was some poor fetcher several decades ago and they never figured out how he did it.

It's a shame your mouth isn't as pretty as your face, lass, but I'm not one to complain. You'll certainly provide some entertainment once you snap, screaming obscenities at the guards until they put you down like a rabid nix hound, because that's what you are, a criminal s'wit like you. Yeah, you heard me. Very soon I'll be out of here, free to have run of the world again, but you, you're going to die here, girl. I might sing a prayer for your rotting remains when I'm lying on a beach in Summerset and- aaargh!"

He yelped as the bone Liallan had tossed hit him on the temple, leaving what would become a nasty bruise.

Liallan turned her back on the Dunmer, ignoring him as he proceeded with his speech from a somewhat safer distance. She had no doubt she'd be able to pick up some valuable additions for her repertoire of curses from every race and culture, but she had more important things to worry about. The reasonable, methodical course of action having failed, she looked desperately around her cell. Her heart lurched when the iron sconce with the torch gave way upon grasping it, but nothing happened. She bit her lip in frustration.

Liallan strode resolutely to a corner and sat down, her knees pulled up, her arms hugging them, her back to the wall. She could stand the cold better than most Dunmer, but it was still very chilly, with the cold drafts from Lake Rumare easing through the window.

Doing her best to shut out the ramblings of the other prisoner out of her brain, Liallan heaved a sigh and resolved to wait for some sort of miracle to happen.

By way of luck, chance, and a healthy spoonful of fate, she didn't have to wait long.


	3. Another Day, Another Crisis

At thirty-nine, Baurus had seen his share of battles, assaults, and general things-going-completely-wrong-and-requiring-improvisation, otherwise he would've never been assigned the coveted prestigious position of one of Uriel Septim's select personal bodyguards.

There was always some sort of crisis going on, the only question was whether it was at your doorstep or far from home. In the case of the former, you always had to count with the possibility of things not going right, of assassins kicking down your door and ruining your day by attempting to kill the person you swore to protect.

Things like that just happened. Baurus could handle surprises, locked doors that were supposed to be open, dishes that were supposed to have been washed, and assassins out for his Emperor's life, even if they were obviously mindless fanatics and wore burgundy robes that turned into sinister daedric armour. If nothing else, he'd seen it all before, one way or another.

He had never seen anything like this.

There was practically a siege going on. Assassins had attacked the Imperial Palace, forming a tight ring around it to prevent anyone from escaping while a number of their comrades pressed their way inside. The fact that the Imperial Guard cut dozens of their numbers down did nothing to discourage them. Mindless and determined, they stood their ground at the palace doors, ready to act in the off chance their select comrades had failed.

It was truly fortunate that Baurus and the others hadn't needed to use the front entrance.

The small group had made its way to the cellar, cutting down any interposing assassins as they went, and then travelled through the sewer system to the Market District. They had climbed out, trusting a hastily acquired ragged cloak and the incoming cover of darkness to conceal the Emperor's identity from any stray eye. The majestic sight of Lake Rumare in the brilliance of the setting sun - which had a rare, somewhat fatalistic-looking reddish tint to it - was unappreciated for once as they hurried across the bridge and into the Prison District, moving past the few guards who hadn't gone to deal with the disaster at the foot of the Palace.

Captain Renault waved dismissively at the guard's inquiries as she brushed past him, opening the door to the dungeons. Uriel Septim removed his cloak, which wasn't doing a very good job, anyway, and followed her, flanked by Glenroy, with Baurus at their heels.

"Baurus, lock that door behind us," came Renault's stern, no-nonsense voice.

"Yes, Captain," the Redguard responded, having reached for the handle even before the order had come. The lock flashed brightly as Glenroy lit a torch.

As they descended the steps, treading carefully in the deceptive light, Baurus could hear the Emperor murmur softly,

"My sons... They're all dead, aren't they?"

Renault responded, sounding slightly disgruntled by the suggestion,

"We don't know that, Sire, the messenger only said they were attacked-"

"They're dead, I know it..."

Baurus shook his head silently at the sound of the Emperor's voice - gravely and resigned, just like he had so often sounded in the past few weeks, often without an obvious reason... While he held great respect for him and the memory of the Emperor's brighter days was still fresh in his mind, in the past few months he had been acting strangely, steadily growing more detached from reality. During the fight at his quarters, all he had done was stand at the window and gaze at his empire, only turning to face them after an assassin had kicked down the door with a cry - had there been something about Lord Dagon? He had simply stared in his direction, not quite seeing, showing no reaction as the fanatic had moved to kill, only to be put down by the Captain. Later, he had followed as if in a trance, seeming half-lost in his reverie even as Renault relayed the latest news to him, word of the assault on his three sons having arrived only minutes before the attack on the Emperor himself.

It had long become an unspoken agreement among his followers to humour the old liege, and by the barely audible sigh Captain Renault allowed herself Baurus could tell she was sharing similar thoughts.

"My job right now is to get you to safety," Renault stated to fill in the void that hung in the air rather than because it had needed to be said. Perhaps it was her elaborate way of reminding the Emperor that they really had other worries at the moment.

They walked through the narrow corridor. Baurus hung back slightly, glancing at the shadows in the stairwell behind them even though he knew he'd hear the sound of persuers opening the door long before he'd be able to see them.

The cells seemed to be empty, this was the more desolate section of the prison. Somewhere on his right, his memory told him, was a cranky old Dunmer by the name of Valen Dreth - once an accomplished thief and scammer, currently a pathetic wretch with a tongue sharp enough to stab you in the gut. It was truly ironic that the cell with the secret passage they were intending to use lay right across from him and Baurus expected that the Dunmer would have a few choice words to say about the coincidence.

After a few more moments' walking they had reached the place. Glancing sideways, Baurus saw the former thief sulking in the shadows of his cell. You only needed so much time spent in prison to learn to stay out of trouble and keep out of everyone's way. At the door to the opposite cell, Renault was fumbling with the locks and the peculiar-looking magic crystals that served as keys..

"What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is _supposed _to be off-limits!" she suddenly called out, her voice tense and apprehensive as she whirled to confront Glenroy, the poor soul.  
"The usual mix-up with the Watch, I-" Glenroy stammered as Baurus shifted his postion to look over the other Blade's shoulder. Indeed, there was a prisoner in the cell, backed up against the far wall, his or her face effectively obscured by the gloom, the sunset light trickling shyly through the window barely strong enough to even hint at the unwanted presence.

"Never mind. Let's get that gate open," said Renault with a very faint sigh, resigning to yet another something-that-hasn't-gone-as-planned. And naturally required improvisation. "Stand back, prisoner! We won't hesitate to kill you if you you get in our way," she called to the figure in the cell as the barred door swung open. It was a moot point, the way Baurus saw it. If anyone was crazy enough to rush three armed and armoured men - or two men and one woman, admittedly, - a warning probably wouldn't do much good. Besides, the prisoner had already moved as far from the trouble as the walls allowed.

Glenroy and Renault walked in, the male Blade lighting the way and keeping a watchful eye on the prisoner - a Dunmer woman, Baurus could now tell, standing tall and slim and taut as a bowstring ready to snap. The Captain turned her back, pulled at the iron sconce on the wall, and without releasing it reached up with her other hand, pressing hard at an unconspicuous-looking rock and shoving it sideways. Baurus could hear the tell-tale sound of stone grinding against stone as the niche in the wall cleared to reveal an earthy passage. Baurus ushered the Emperor into the cell, shutting the gate.

"Stay put, prisoner," Glenroy said to the Dunmer, who took the revelation of the secret passage with an air of detached calm. She then stared at the Emperor and then glanced back at Glenroy when he took several threatening steps towards her, his practised hand flying lightly to the hilt of his katana, protectively blocking any path to the Emperor while Renault waited impatiently just inside the passage.

Emperor Uriel walked towards the opening in the wall, still somewhere between reality and his visions, until his clouded gaze passed the prisoner. He halted suddenly, now wide-awake and staring at the dark figure pressed close to the wall.

"You... I've seen you..."

All three Blades were taken by surprise when the Emperor confidently strode right past Glenroy, the Blade who was so admirably trying to keep the prisoner at a safe distance.

"Let me see your face..." Uriel requested softly. After a visible, lingering moment of hesitation, the woman edged closer, obviously taking care not to upset the three Blades ready to rush to the Emperor's defense at a moment's notice.

With her closer to the flickering light of Glenroy's torch now, Baurus finally got a good look at her. Tall and slim, lanky rather than curvy, with wiry muscle contributing significantly more to her figure than body fat. Her posture wasn't just strained, she had the controlled air of someone trying very hard to hide the fact that they were drunk, limping, exhausted or otherwise incapacitated. She would've been doing a remarkable job if only the numerous and relatively fresh patches of blood on her torn clothes didn't give it all away.

And of course, there was her face. Bluish-grey skin, unusual dark red hair falling down her shoulders in a long messy tangle. She had untypically dark eyes for a Dunmer, more a rich cherry red than the bloodshot crimson Baurus was used to seeing. Her sharp, angular features carried the same message as her posture, a controlled mask of attention.

Even without the injuries, the lack of the gaunt under-nourished look all prisoners eventually came to share could only mean she hadn't been in here for long, a few days at most. Baurus reflexively edged closer with his hand on his scabbard upon making this observation. The gesture was not lost on the Dunmer, whose eyes darted first to follow his hand and then to glance at his face, sizing him up. Her body gave a barely perceptible twitch when a reflexe should've kicked in but was stopped by the mind.

The Redguard tensed. This was obviously not the average street pickpocket and he was uncomfortable with the idea of her standing a mere stride away from his Emperor.

All this transpired in an instant, as used to appraising strangers as a Blade had to be. The Emperor was also gazing at the Dunmer, who shifted uncomfortably, ready to jump back against the wall any moment. Glenroy, his eyes narrowed and his face tense, looked like he would gladly hack the woman to pieces for causing this delay. Renault just stared in a bewildered and helpless way.

"Yes... You are the one from my dreams..." the Emperor spoke again and an all-too-recognisable look passed through the prisoner's face, a look that was eventually shared by any and all new servants who came into the Emperor's employment. "Then the stars were right, and today is the day," he added, more to himself. "May the Gods give me strength."

"_Sire..._" Renault started, but trailed off as the Emperor paid her no heed. Baurus shifted in unease. The prisoner looked disconcerted.

"What day is that, exactly?" the Dunmer asked, when it became clear the old man wasn't going anywhere. Her Imperial was flawless. Not a native of Vvardenfell, then.

The Emperor murmured a reply, a very faint strange smile on his face,

"It is the day I face my destiny and you first embark on the path set for you by the gods. Whatever you have done up till now, it is not that for which you will be remembered." He then backed away towards the passage. "You must come with us, you must help us. Only you can douse the fires of destruction that will soon wreak chaos on Tamriel. Only you can save us."

The Dunmer blinked. Baurus sighed. A muffled laugh was heard from the other occupied cell.

"Ah," the prisoner breathed.

"_Please_, Sire, we _must_ keep moving," Renault spoke in an exasperated way. She almost seemed surprised when the Emperor finally turned and moved through the opening in the wall. Glenroy followed, but not before shooting a hostile glance of warning at the prisoner.

"Looks like this is your lucky day. Just stay out of our way," Baurus said quietly to the Dunmer, who answered with a blank look. Baurus shook his head in disbelief and followed his Emperor, keeping the woman in the corner of his eye. She'd be crazy to try anything at this point, but in the last few hours he had dealt often enough with crazy so as not to push his chances.

The small group made its way through the earthy tunnel, the unsteady soil sliding under their feet, with the Dunmer prisoner following not far behind. Something that sounded like a string of Dunmeri curses echoed from Dreth's cell.

Choice words indeed.


	4. The Emperor's Legacy

Baurus no longer bothered with sheathing his sword as he followed Glenroy and the Emperor through the eerie Ayleid passages. His gaze kept shifting apprehensively to and fro, struggling to take in all of his surroundings at once. He hated the Ayleid ruins with a passion. The way they were built, with bluish crystals throwing patchy illumination, pillars, arcs, alcoves and niches harbouring pitch-black shadows, every corner was the perfect hiding place for assassins.

The Captain was dead, struck down from her exposed side as she rushed to the Emperor's aid. Her death left a bitter feeling in Baurus's gut, only adding to the grief he felt over the apparent deaths of Uriel's three sons. Renault had sometimes been a hard woman to deal with, bossy and authorative, but it was something you learned to appreciate while waging a war. She had been a good woman, and a good Blade, up to the very end.

Her effort would've been in vain had she not bought time for the prisoner to intervene. Just as the assassin was bearing down on the Emperor, who had backed up against a wall, the Dunmer had sprung from the shadows, slamming all her body weight into the assassin's side. With the armour covering his body, it surely had to be painful for her, but it knocked him off his feet, allowing Baurus to deal with him. For someone wearing rags and wielding no weapon, the Dunmer had shown impressive courage.

Even so, Baurus hadn't wanted to waste time on debating when Glenroy proceeded to leave the prisoner behind, locking the heavy door. His paranoia paid off when the ancient lock was wedged shut by his efforts. The way back was closed now, seeing as no key, lockpick or spell would do any good against the hopelessly ruined mechanism.

As they rounded a corner, Baurus glared at the deep alcoves in the wall. Now more than even, he regretted not having been gifted with magical talent. A life detection spell would have been invaluable at this point.

He banished the thought. He had to make do with what he had. They needed to traverse the ruins underneath the city and later the sewers, exit just at the edge of Lake Rumare and cross the wilderness of the Jerall Mountains to Cloud Ruler Temple. There the Emperor would, hopefully, have some measure of safety. Afterwards, they would need to start their research into the attack, the identity of the assassins and their motives.

It bothered Baurus greatly that the assassins knew of the secret passage. Outside of the Blades, who all shared thorough knowledge of the secret passages through the city, he couldn't spontaneously think of anyone who would be aware of it. And the thought of a traitor among the Blades was troubling indeed.

He heard the assassin before he saw him and spun on his heels, his katana raised. The figure launched itself from the alcove and he rushed to meet it, his blade drawing a deadly arc and clashing against the black claymore of the attacker. Another assassin attacked him from his side and he briefly saw three more rush Glenroy.

"My sword for the Dragon!" his comrade cried, fending off an assailant who had been heading for the Emperor.

Only two Blades standing between five assassins and their target, and you only needed so much of an opening to kill an old man. Mouthing a prayer to Talos, Baurus focused on staying alive and keeping himself a barrier between the Emperor and his opponents. For several moments, all that could be heard was the ring of metal and the occasional grunt and cry of pain.

He parried another blow and drove his katana into the assassin's stomach, twisting out of the way as the second assailant struck out. He used his momentum to hurl the limp body off his blade and into the other opponent, pressing forward as the assassin dodged out of the way of the falling red-clad body. Diving past a vicious slash at his head, Baurus skewered the man and whirled around, already rushing to Glenroy's aid.

Glenroy grunted as he was thrown back against the wall, staggering in shock. While one of the two remaining assassins raised his mace to finish him, the other lunged at the Emperor. Baurus moved to intercept him but was held back by a vicious flurry of blows coming from a third assassin, one who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere to join the fray, nearly catching the Baurus by surprise.

He found himself being pressed back even as he desperately tried to dispose of the attacker. He finally managed to plant the blade between a pair of ribs and hurried to the Emperor's side.

Much to his surprise and relief, he found the old man safe, with the Dunmer prisoner parrying the last assassin's enraged blows while Glenroy hung back, clutching his injured shoulder. The assassin who had meant to attack the Emperor lay in a crumpled heap on the stone floor, blood leaking from where the Dunmer had struck as she lunged at him from the shadows.

The last assassin fell to the ground with a cry of pain. Breathing hard, Baurus stared at the still shadows, the grip on his sword unwavering. After a few more moments, it seemed that the threat had been eliminated - for now, at least.

Baurus looked in bewilderment at the Dunmer and the familiar blood-stained katana in her hands. Her posture seemed to have eased somewhat. He had no idea where she had come from but he was thankful for it.

Glenroy, though, didn't seem so charitable.

"Get away from us, or stay and be killed," he growled at the Dunmer, who didn't seem in a hurry to lower her weapon, "I don't know who you're working for but I-"

"No, she is not one of them," interrupted the Emperor in a quiet voice. Baurus silently agreed. If she wanted the Emperor dead she would've only needed to stand back and enjoy the show. Glenroy shrugged, relighting the torch that had gone out during the assault, his eyes narrowed as he watched the woman. The fact that she had just saved his life along with that of the Emperor's didn't seem to have improved his disposition.

"Come closer, I prefer not to have to shout," said Uriel with the patient, kindly voice of a comely grandfather who did not have assassins breathing down his neck and hadn't just lost several of the closest people in the world.

The Dunmer edged closer, sheathing her blade under Glenroy's glare - the Captain's katana, Baurus now had no doubt of it.

"We have to keep moving, we can't afford to stand here waiting to be attacked," Glenroy cut in before the Emperor could say something. The old man's shoulders slumped slightly at this reminder at their predicament, but he nodded and turned, gesturing the Dunmer to follow.

The mindless flight through the ruins resumed, eyes scanning the dark hallways, every step echoing eerily off the stone. Glenroy pressed forward, the Emperor and the prisoner following, with Baurus closing the procession. Even as he kept his eyes and ears open for trouble, he could hear parts of the exchange between the two figures in front of him.

"They cannot understand why I trust you... They have not seen what I have seen," came the low voice of the Emperor.

"...Yeah."

"Tell me this: do you know of the Nine, how they spin the web of our fates with an invisible hand?"

"I've heard of them," the Dunmer replied coldly.

"I have served the Nine all my days and have learned to chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. The stars are many, each a fire, and every one a sign. Their voices can tell much to the listening ear, and so I wonder: Which sign marked your birth?"

There was a moment of suspicious hesitation before she answered,

"The Thief," her voice brisk. "Why do you ask?"

"I have known my fate for some time now and I recognise the signs that herald the end of my path. And while your path is not clear to me, among whatever else the gods have in store for you, there will be light and there will be triumph. Yours is the face of hope for the land of Tamriel, and knowing this, my heart is satisfied."

An uneasy pause followed before the Dunmer spoke up.

"You don't fear death?" she asked, obviously steering the conversation away from her supposedly saving the world.

"No trophies of my triumphs have proceeded me, unfortunately, but I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy." Baurus heard a smile in the Emperor's voice as he said it. Shaking his head, he studied the treacherous ruins, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. This day had gone bad enough and the Emperor talking as if he was already a dead man did nothing to bolster his spirits. Glenroy swore quietly, his irritation evident, as he motioned the procession to turn around. A passageway they had been intending to use had obviously caved in some time ago, forcing them to retrace their footsteps and search for another route. Meanwhile, the old man continued in a low voice, "Men are but flesh and blood: they know their doom, but not the hour. In this, I am blessed to see the hour of my death, to face my apportioned fate, then fall."

"Will you make no attempt whatsoever to survive?" Suddenly the Dunmer woman's voice sounded accusing. "If you're so content to die, why are you even here? Why bother trying to escape? Where are going if you really think it will all be to no avail? And above all, why risk the lives of the bodyguards who'd die to keep you alive if you are so certain of your own demise?" She sounded frustrated, her voice an angry whisper. Glenroy shot her another glare, obviously incensed at her insolence.

"One must not stray from the path, one must follow it to the end. It is crucial that events play out the way they should and not otherwise. As a spontaneous example, had I stayed at my palace to die, the two of us would have never met, a catastrophe all in itself. But because I am doing this, an important achievement has been made, one that will make all the difference - for the world of Tamriel if not for me. I go to my grave,..." Glenroy gave the Emperor a startled glance and Baurus cringed at the statement as much as the way it had been said, devoid of emotion and matter-of-factly, "...but you must go on and fulfill your destiny. Our paths have crossed, but only for a short while. Even so, I am glad to have met Tamriel's salvation before taking leave from this world."

Silence settled over the party. The Emperor seemed to drown in his visions again as he shuffled mindlessly through the corridors. Baurus kept his breath shallow and steady. The lack of any incidents for such a period of time grated on his nerves even more than the dungeon itself.

They continued on through the maze, ancient archways looming over them, the shadows glowering from dark corners. Suddenly Glenroy halted, gesturing for them to do the same.

"Hold up, I don't like this," he mouthed, nodding at the passage ahead. Taking a look Baurus was forced to agree. They were facing the entrance to a vast hallway, pale crystals glowing many feet above them, the walls, alcoves and fallen collumns shrouded in darkness hiding a promise of danger. "Let me take a look," Glenroy volunteered, drawing his blade as he ventured forward. With light steps and his torch held high, he proceeded down the hallway, doing his best to illuminate and examine the shady spots. Baurus and the Dunmer, who had drawn the katana again, stood protectively on either side of the Emperor, ready to spring into action.

Several long minutes passed. Baurus kept shifting his weight and flexing his muscles to avoid cramping as he found himself unable to relax his stance.

After what seemed like an eternity, Glenroy returned, still facing the hallway as he backed towards them.

"It looks clear," he reported, seeming even more agitated than before.

"Where exactly are we headed?" the Dunmer mouthed in Baurus's general direction as they traversed the hall, tense and weapons drawn, eyes shifting apprehensively.

"There's a passage that connects the ruins with the sewers of the city, we're going to use them to get to the other side of Lake Rumare. We're almost there."

"Right," she grunted. "Are you absolutely sure it wouldn't have been safer to just swim across the lake? Rent a boat? A spell of water-walking?"

Baurus bit down an angry and irritated response and sighed in frustration. "I admit, things aren't going exactly according to plan," he said quietly. The Dunmer shook her head silently, obviously forgoing a sarcastic response. "Anyway, I don't see why you would complain about it. If not for that ultimate, inexplicable coincidence, you'd still be in your cell. Perhaps it really was the will of the gods..."

The Dunmer snorted to show what she thought of that idea as they rounded a corner.

Baurus tensed in anticipation, allowing himself just the faintest idea of hope as they crossed the last few passages. The gate through which they would escape should come into sight in a moment or so... As they drew closer, however, that little spark of hope was drowned in the wave of panic that filled his gut. The gateway was hanging off its hinges, the metal twisted and charred, and heavy boulders blocked the narrow passageway, sealing it off beyond hope.

"Damn it! The passage has been collapsed! A trap!" cried Glenroy as he whirled around, raising his katana, expecting assassins to close in any moment. At that moment, they heard it: muffled footsteps quickly heading their way... With no place to retreat to, they would be cut down quickly, and the Emperor would die, unless..

"What about that side passage over there?" Baurus asked, pointing to an inconspicuous opening in the wall.

"Worth a try. Let's go!"

They rushed through the short, narrow passage, entering a small room with no other exit. While still a death trap, at least they now had a somewhat defensible position, a glimmer of hope. Leaving the Emperor, Glenroy rushed back outside and Baurus could already hear the clang of weapons as his comrade took on the first wave. He turned to the prisoner.

"Stay here with the Emperor. _Guard him with your life_." He grabbed hold of her shoulder and gave it a shake to emphasize the latter, his bearing letting her know it wasn't just a suggestion. The Dunmer nodded with a tightening in her jaw, shaking his hand off.

Wasting no more time, Baurus turned on his heel and dashed out of the chamber to where Glenroy was backing down under a flurry of blows.

"For the Empire!" he cried, and leapt into the fray.

XXX

Liallan stood at the doorway, the katana out as she stared at the fight. All she could see through the passage was a blur of black armor against the metallic silver and gold of the Blades, the latter being vastly outnumbered. She was still sore in my places than she cared to think about, but since she'd healed herself she could at least fight.

An assassin had dodged past the Blades and into the passage and hurled himself at her, his mace rushing in a high arc while he screamed "For Lord Dagon!" into her ears. She parried the blow, locking the blade against the hilt of the mace, but rather than recoiling from him, she pressed forward, diving under his reach and slamming into him. Her bruised side was protesting once again at the abuse, but she successfully drove the assassin into the wall, causing him to stagger. Recovering fatally faster than her opponent, Liallan was on him like a viper, the katana scraping against the armor as it sank into his chest.

The man slumped down, his attire mysteriously disappearing in red mist just like that of his comrades, while Liallan glanced back towards the Blades. She jumped in surprise when a hand grasped her shoulder, and spun around to face the Emperor. The glittering crimson jewel set in the amulet resting on his chest was now glowing faintly, giving it an even more foreboding appearance.

"Wha-"

"I can go no further. My time is running short. I must tell you what you need to know." His voice was now intense and gravely. Knowing the hour of your death couldn't be fun, no matter what he said - even if she was long convinced he was a complete madman...

"You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants." The Emperor pulled her away from the doorway, backing into a corner. With him a few feet further away from the fight, Liallan didn't object, but his voice now held a strained desperation and his pale blue eyes glittered with an urgency she didn't like.

With an efficient motion, the Emperor pulled the gaudy red jewel from his chest and handed it to her. After a moment's hesitation, Liallan grasped it with her free hand, letting the jewel dangle from her fingers on the golden chain when she didn't like the tingling power radiating from the gem.

"Take the Amulet to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

The Emperor took a step backward, out of her reach, as she struggled for something to say. She winced at the sound of someone sounding like Glenroy crying out in pain behind her. But before she could turn to face the battle again, she heard the grinding of stones sliding apart, and then...

_No!_

She started forward, but the figure was too fast, flying out of the passage in a flash, the longsword in its grasp carving through the air, parting the intricate seams of the regal robe, slashing through flesh and splintering bone.

The Emperor crumpled to the floor, the look of shock and realisation dying as his eyes glazed over, while Liallan sprang back, out of the reach of the second blow of the sword, now aiming for her. The assassin, not giving the dead Emperor a single glance, advanced on her.

"You picked a bad day to take up the cause of the Septims, stranger," the armored figure leered and attacked.

On a good day, the fight would've been short. But then, on a good day Liallan would've been wearing armor and wielding a weapon with a reach somewhat more appropriate for such close quarters, wouldn't be encumbered by a huge breakable amulet in one hand, and would've been healed and rested. Although, come to think of it, on a good day Liallan wouldn't be anywhere near a prison and a score of bloodthirsty assassins out to cause the inevitable the demise of an Emperor.

Her left hand kept the Amulet safely out of reach as her right handled the task of parrying the overwhelming blows. Even so, there was little opportunity for the offensive and Liallan found herself pushed backwards into a corner, with the wall only a few feet away from her. She tried to dive past the assassin but got a heavily armoured boot on her kneecap for the trouble. Staggering and crying out in pain, she raised the katana to parry the opportunistic slash at her chest and was knocked backwards against the hard wall, the breath flying out of her lungs as she found herself pinned down.

Liallan kicked out, the flat of her foot landing square on her opponent's stomach. While doing no real damage - except to herself, as the pain instantly informed her - the kick caused him to stagger backwards and the weight pinning her down to lift. Liallan raised her blade provocatively and stayed where she was, readying herself, as the man resumed the attack, lunging forward and obviously putting all his strength into the blow.

The Dunmer braced herself, as if intending to parry it, but at the last possible moment veered sideways, dodging away from the sword and nearly collapsing at the weight placed on her injured knee. As she expected, the assasin cried out in pain, his trembling arms dropping the sword as the shock of its impact against the wall shook his whole body. Not letting the man recover, Liallan closed in, impaling the assassin. There was the telltale stiffening of muscles and then the red mist.

Liallan shook the robed body from the bloodied katana, leaning herself against the wall. Suddenly there was movement in the doorway and Baurus rushed in just as the body hit the floor with a thud. He was panting from the fight, his posture was stiff and uneasy, blood leaking from underneath the various openings in his armour and dripping into puddles off the blade of his weapon.

The Redguard's gaze flitted to her and the limp assassin on the floor, and then to the Emperor in the opposite corner.

"No!" he gasped, his body convulsing as if having been pierced by an imaginary sword. His hand jerked, the blood-smeared katana clattering to the floor. The Blade fell to his knees by the Emperor's side, kneeling over the lifeless figure. His hand reached for the blood-drenched wound in the old man's side, fingers halting in the air a bare inch away, not quite touching. His breath turned ragged and uneven. Baurus screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head slowly in desperate denial.

Liallan stayed where she was, leaning against the wall, with the tip of the katana in her hand trailing on the floor, her sword arm hanging limply by her side. Her knee hurt, as did her foot, but she paid it no heed, letting herself wallow in the sadness and bitter anger she felt. She may have not known the Emperor, he may have been a mindless lunatic, but he shouldn't have had to die. There was a nagging feeling of guilt eating at her conscience, even though she knew that this time, the death really wasn't due to any mistake of hers. Even so, she had been entrusted with his life, and now he was dead. She was even more furious at how quietly he had resolved to go - it seemed that he had indeed known the precise moment of his death, and if only he had moved away from the passage instead of towards it, if only he had given her a chance to protect him... But no, he had needed to go and ramble about her role in the fate of Tamriel and all that, which made her think, if he was right about knowing when he would die, could it be-

_Oh no, stop that trail of thought right there._

Liallan shook her head wearily, than snapped back to reality when she heard Baurus murmuring softly...

"..Dead. We've failed... I... _I've_ failed... The Blades have sworn to protect the Emperor and now he and all his sons are dead..."

The Dunmer felt like she should've said something, corrected that one mistake, but she didn't have it in her to speak...

Suddenly the Blade looked up, his gaze focusing on Liallan.

"The Amulet of the Kings, it's not on his body! Do you know what-"

Liallan held forth her left hand, letting the Amulet dangle from her fingers.

"He gave it to me." Her own voice sounded strange to her ears, empty and detached.

Baurus regarded her silently, then said quietly,

"Strange... He saw something in you... Trusted you." His gaze filled with sorrow as it returned to the dead Emperor, studying his face. The Redguard reached out and gently closed the man's eyes. "They say it's the Dragonblood in the veins of every Septim that makes them see more... more than ordinary humans. The Amulet of Kings is a sacred relic, the ultimate symbol of the Emperor. Many think it's the Red Dragon Crown, but that's just jewelry... But the Amulet... Only a true heir of Septim blood can wear it..." Baurus's voice trailed off for a moment, then he gave a bitter laugh. "_Could_ wear it... It's all over now. The Emperor and his sons are dead... The line has ended."

"Perhaps not," Liallan found herself saying.

"What? What are you talking about?" Baurus stared at her in confusion.

"The Emperor... Before he died... He gave me the Amulet and told me to give it to someone called Jauffre," Liallan explained, struggling to find the words. "Apparently there's another heir."

Baurus studied her for a moment, his expression now calculating. Finally, he spoke up,

"Nothing I've ever heard about, but Jauffre would be the one to know. He's the Grandmaster of our Order," Baurus added in answer to her questioning gaze, "...though you may not think so to meet him. He lives under the guise of a monk in Weynon Priory, south-east of Chorrol."

Liallan was silent, then asked quietly,

"How do I get there?"

Baurus regarded her and just a hint of a smile appeared on his bloodied and worn features.

"It seems the Emperor's trust in you was well-placed."

She gave him what was surely a blank, incomprehensive look. Well-placed? Hadn't she just failed to protect him after the Redguard had instructed her to _guard him with her life_?

Shaking his head at her confounded expression, Baurus sighed and continued,

"First, you'll need to get out of here. That passage there must lead to some part of the sewers," he jerked his head towards the treacherous opening through which the assassin had come, "There aren't many other possibilities. The sewers might hold a few rats and goblins, but they shouldn't give you much trouble, from what I've seen. You'll emerge somewhere on the bank of Lake Rumare. I trust you'll be able to find your own way to Chorrol from there."

"What about you?" she asked. The Redguard's features tightened.

"I'll guard the Emperor's body and make sure no one follows you."

Liallan frowned. The gods only knew how many more of those assassins were coming, but it was obvious the Blade was serious about it. She sighed, shaking her head. She finally sheathed the katana and dropped the Amulet into a pouch she had earlier scavenged from one of the red-clad corpses.

Liallan limped over to Baurus, halting briefly to send healing magic into her body. The throbbing in her knee lessened somewhat. She then dug into the pouch and handed Baurus a healing potion. He looked at it for a moment, his eyes briefly shifting to access her own injuries, then accepted it.

"Thanks." He uncorked the bottle and downed it, relaxing visibly as the wounds underneath his armor healed somewhat. He glanced at the sword hanging at Liallan's hip..

"I see you brought Captain Renault's katana..." his voice was just wistful enough for her to realise what he was getting at.

"Do you want it?" Liallan asked brusquely.

"You'd be unarmed," he pointed out, looking at her sceptically.

"Not for long. I'll be going through the _sewers_, after all." Unbuckling the katana from her belt, she practically shoved it into the Redguard's hands. "Take it."

Baurus carefully set the blade on the ground.

"Thanks," he said again. "It's earned a place of honour in our halls, beside Glenroy's..." There was a bitterness in his voice and Liallan couldn't blame him. "Here, you'll need this." He retrieved a small, ordinary-looking iron key and handed it to her. "It should unlock the entrance to the sewers, wherever it is."

"Right."

A pause.

"I'll get going, then," she said, moving over to the passageway. "Good luck, Baurus, I hope you live through this."

"Likewise. Do you have a name, or should I keep calling you 'prisoner'?"

She hesitated, then answered,

"Liallan."

He nodded, then said,

"Good luck to you too, you'll need it."

"Won't we all..." Liallan muttered, shaking her head, and disappeared through the passage.


	5. A Shady Interlude

Leaving the mudcrabs to their own business, Liallan walked along the shore until she could no longer smell the sewer entrance. Then, she quickly stripped, briefly hiding her few possessions under a rock while she tried to get the last reminders of the Imperial Prison and the sewers off her body. She rinsed the dirt and blood off her skin as best as she could and collected her hair into a high bun again, taking care to braid her few lockpicks into it in the process. Donning her shredded clothing again for lack of anything better and ensuring that the Amulet was still in her pouch, she looked up at the sky. It was just past midnight. Perfect.

With a bit of firm persuasion, the barred door in the mouth of the sewers tunnel swung open, allowing Liallan to pass through. The night was a dark one, thick cloud cover blotting out the dim shadow of Secunda and leaving only shreds of Masser's reddish presence visible in the sky, with half-hearted reflections flickering in the pitch-black waters of Lake Rumare. Just across it towered the Imperial City, a pale ghost of light grey walls and towers.

Leaving the mudcrabs to their own business, Liallan walked along the shore until she could no longer smell the sewer entrance. Then, she quickly stripped, briefly hiding her few possessions under a rock while she tried to get the last reminders of the Imperial Prison and the sewers off her body. She rinsed the dirt and blood off her skin as best as she could and collected her hair into a high bun again, taking care to braid her few lockpicks into it in the process. Donning her shredded clothing again for lack of anything better and ensuring that the Amulet was still in her pouch, she looked up at the sky. It was just past midnight. Perfect.

The Waterfront district held an unnaturally hushed quality, unusual for this time of the day, when the most significant business was being conducted. The slums were nearly empty and Liallan only saw the occasional beggar cautiously peering around the corner and hugging the shadows of the shabby buildings. Even the Bloated Float, the ship-turned-tavern anchored securely to the docks, sounded almost deserted.

Liallan turned a corner and approached the Garden of Dareloth only to find it empty, which wasn't that surprising, considering the rest of the district. Looking around, she spotted Puny Ancus propped up against a wall, wrapped in a blanket that seemed to have more holes than actual fabric. His head was lolling on his chest and he appeared to be nodding off. Creeping closer, Liallan nudged the beggar with her foot.

The beggar stirred and a worn, wrinkled face looked with surprise into her own. His eyes widened as he recognised her and scrambled upright..

"It's you! I'd heard they'd dragged ye off to the prison. Didn't expect to see ye coming out so soon. Lucky one, ain'tcha?"

Liallan shrugged, then pressed a gold coin, a legacy of the assassins, into the old man's palm.  
"Any chance of you knowing what's going on here? Why's the district so empty?"

"You didn't hear, didcha?" Puny Ancus shifted his weight with excitement as he bit experimentally at the septim. "They're saying some assassins stormed the Palace. Guards kept cutting 'em down but they'd just kept coming. Some even got inside. I'd heard the Emperor himself had to make a run for it." Liallan swore silently, realising she had neglected to ask Baurus about what had happened before the Emperor had gone through her cell. It occurred to her that she didn't even have any idea of who the assassins had been. "Now, though, the attack's over and the guards are scouring over the city, trying ter find out who's behind it all. Tried dragging some folk off, too."

"What about Armand? Is he here?"

"I heard he was lying low at Dynari Amnis's in the Talos District. Trying to figure out what to do and all that..."

"Thanks, Ancus. Shadow hide you," with that, Liallan swiftly turned and stalked away into the night.

Even at this late hour, the Imperial City was in an uproar. Small groups of guards were hurrying to and fro around the districts, restlessness visible in every move. Both they and the few remaining stationary guards were easy to avoid as Liallan crept through the Talos District, passing the statue of Akatosh framed with flowerbeds. Luckily, she knew where Dynari resided, having once visited the stocky Imperial woman on Guild business. Spotting the door to Dynari Amnis's house, she edged close and leaned in. Yes, there were definitely voices coming from within, familiar ones holding a tinge of frustration. She gave the door a light but persistent knock, taking care to use the sequence agreed upon by the Thieves Guild members.

At once, the voices fell silent, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon being drawn. Footsteps almost too light to hear approached the door. Liallan moved back, allowing herself space just in case something was wrong. She heard the click of a lock before the door opened a crack. The tan, wide-nosed face of a Redguard peered through at her.

His face betrayed a hint of surprise before he swung the door open, pulling her inside, and shut it behind her. Methredel and Dynari were standing at a table, candles throwing patchy light onto the leather armour of the two. The Imperial sat back down upon recognising her while the Bosmer drew closer to greet her, a smile on her face.

"Liallan! Didn't think I'd see you anytime soon. Weren't you dragged off to the Imperial Prison? How did you get out? I always thought you to be an exceptional thief but really, it's the Imperial Prison, how on Nirn did you pull that off?" Liallan instinctively edged back from the flurry of questions while Armand Cristophe, a Doyen of the Gray Fox, cracked an amused grin.

"One question at a time, Methredel," Liallan held up her arms somewhat defensively, chuckling half-heartedly. "Yes, I was in the Imperial Prison, what else does it look like?" She gestured at her torn clothes. "And yes, I got lucky. Let's leave it at that. Now, will anyone tell me what's going on around here?"

It was Armand who answered her, his expression darkening again,

"A group of people attacked the Imperial Palace, obviously aiming for the Emperor. Some managed to get inside, there are even rumours the Emperor has been killed. Just the usual far-fetched speculation, of course," he amended quickly at seeing Liallan's expression turn sour. "As I'm sure you've noticed, the guards are now combing through the whole city, trying to find out why, what and where, the usual. But once the dust settles, someone will start casting blame around, and it's always a very specific type of blame whenever something illegal occurs. The problem is that even the Watch realise it's not in the style of the Dark Brotherhood to charge a palace with bound armour and weapons, so the blame will fall on us," he spat bitterly, obviously incensed at the notion. Liallan had a sudden recollection: Weeks ago, she had been questioning him about the details of the Thieves' Code, as it was referred to, and he had given her a very resolute answer...

_"You never kill anyone on a job. We're thieves, _not_ murderers. That's the Dark Brotherhood's province."_

"Is there anything we can do?"

"At the moment?" Methredel answered her. "It's probable the Watch will assault the Waterfront in their search for a scapegoat, so we've already moved all major enterprises to higher ground and the more conspicuous Guild members have gone into hiding. Besides that, we'll just have to see whatever they throw at us and then react to it."

Liallan was quiet for a few moments, during which Dynari and Methredel resumed their bickering over the best course of action while Armand heaved a tired sigh. Then she asked,

"Would it help if we handed the assassins to the Watch on a golden plate?"

Armand raised an eyebrow,

"It would certainly call off the chase, if that's what you mean. Are you suggesting we make our own inquiries into this matter?"  
"Yes, that's exactly what I am suggesting." Liallan meant it. If the Thieves Guild managed to identify the assassins and coax the Watch into dealing with them, both Tamriel and the Guild would have one less problem to worry about. She briefly considered sharing her experience in the ruins beneath the city but decided against it. She didn't really have many more leads than the thieves did.

"I'll report to the Grey Fox. He'll see what we can do," Armand promised.

_Ah yes, the Grey Fox, probably the single most powerful individual in the whole Guild, an elusive criminal mastermind who has been around for several centuries and is rumoured to have stolen his Grey Cowl from the Daedric Lord Nocturnal herself._ Liallan expected that someday she would meet him and wasn't sure if she should look forward to or dread the encounter.

Thoughts of criminals and prison quickly brought another matter to her mind, and she pulled Armand away from the two women.

"What of Cornelicus?" she asked.

During the course of the next few minutes, Liallan learned that the noble's actions had considerably damaged the Grey Fox's opinion of him and that he was to be removed from the scene. The Dunmer had almost been led into thinking the Guild was to break its ultimate 'no killings' rule until the Redguard assured her otherwise.

"Even if we didn't have a policy on this, an assassination would attract far too much attention and the Watch's memory isn't that short - you're accused of attempting to murder him, escape, and as soon as the next morning the man who got you imprisoned is found dead. Someone'll make the connection. No, as much as the bastard deserves it, he's to be dealt with differently."

"Meaning?"

"The Grey Fox already worked it all out. We were going to send someone to pay a visit to him, but it seems fitting that you do it. Take this," he handed her a dagger and a sealed note, "leave this in his chamber. Also, a snitch claims that, rather than leaving your things to the Watch, Cornelicus took them for himself. You can recover them in the process, so you'll be killing two birds with one stone."

Liallan nodded, glancing at the sealed envelope.

"Do I get to ask what's in there?"

"Just some information assuring him that, unless he severs all ties to the Guild and leaves you be, his reputation, rank and titles can and will be removed. You don't need to know any more than that. And of course, when this was written we assumed he'd try to kill you while you were in prison, but it still works."

Liallan frowned. She doubted Cornelicus would just leave her in peace, but short of killing him, this was the best she could do.

Methredel rose, abandoning her debate with Dynari, and led Liallan upstairs.

"Can't have you raiding a noble's house dressed like a beggar," the Wood Elf said cheerfully.

_Gods, she almost makes it sound like I've been invited for dinner,_ Liallan thought with a note of amusement while the other thief shoved heaps of clothing, daggers and lockpicks into her hands, gesturing her to remove the ruined attire she was currently wearing.

"Isn't this Dynari's stuff?" Liallan's voice was muffled as she pulled a black hooded tunic over her head. She navigated her way into light again to see the Bosmer grinning mischievously.

"Oh, I'm sure she won't mind sharing it with a fellow Guild member in dire need," she chuckled. Liallan snorted. The clothes were of exceptionally fine weave, almost exquisite, and she made a mental note to avoid dirtying or damaging them in this night's sortie.

"As long as you're not trying to frame me for breaking one of the Guild laws," Liallan responded with a shrug and a light twitch of her lips.

"Whatever," Methredel laughed, leading her back downstairs. Dynari slowly raised an eyebrow at the Dunmer's attire. Meanwhile, Methredel gave her a little shove in the direction of the door. "Have fun," she said with a grin.

_Definitely a dinner party. Maybe even a date?_

Clad in dark blue trousers, a black hooded tunic and soft leather boots, Liallan carefully left the house, shutting the door on a very annoyed-sounding Dynari, Armand's frustrated sighs and Methredel's giggles. Moving in silent dashes from shadow to shadow, past watchful eyes and the patrols of guards, the Dunmer made her way southward to the Temple District.

Both moons had gone into hiding. The night was a thief's night.


	6. Out in the Rain

Dawn was breaking.

Alvand Cornelicus could see it from his seat at the desk in his study. The window was ajar and the intricate carved shutters were swinging uneasily in the intruding breeze. The clouds had long stretched themselves over the sky, resembling a blanket of cotton drenched with rainwater. That cover rendered the sun little more than a bleak white glare, a patch of the horizon more painful to the still drowsy eyes than the rest. Every so often, a sparse sheet of droplets would shower onto the Imperial City, as if Kynareth herself intended for it to rain but couldn't quite make up her mind.

The heavy tapestries and thick carpets couldn't keep the morning chill out of the air and the Breton shivered. His thin, bony features were set into a focused frown as his eyes ran through the inky lines one last time. After that, he crumpled the letter with a kind of precision typical of High Elf mages and with a casual flick of the mind incinerated it in his palm. The ashes now clenched tight in his fist, he brought his hand to his chin as his eyes stared unseeingly out of the window. He briefly glanced at the plain steel dagger resting on his desk as if it were a poisonous viper.

Cornelicus had no illusions about his position with the Thieves Guild. While the conflict had been unfortunate as well as inevitable, the letter he had received and the warning inside had been expected and concerned him little. Far more worrying was the idea that a hostile individual had managed to break into his home, bypass the magical protections, place a dagger within inches of his throat and get out again, all of it without stirring a fleck of dust.

A moment's reflection made him realise the magical wards he had set weren't all that powerful - designed to scare the random petty thief rather than stop a determined person bent on intrusion. His frown deepened, making the wrinkles and creases in his weathered skin even more pronounced. It occurred to him that he no longer expected anyone other than the occasional thief to be interested in making night visits, that the relative tranquility of the years he had spent as a noble of the Council had gulled him into a false feeling of security - despite the conscious knowledge that he still had old enemies who would make quite a fuss over learning his whereabouts.

Possibly even more troubling was how physically close he had come to being assassinated. The intruder had actually pinned the note to his bedside-table with the point of the dagger, the marks left in the wood a permanent reminder even though he had burned the note. Cornelicus had always believed himself to be a light sleeper and it was somewhat upsetting to learn that after so many years, his experience didn't count for anything anymore. Years of comfort as well as old age had obviously taken their toll. He briefly glanced at the band of gold that encircled his ring finger to assure himself that the magic was still there. The ring bore a powerful illusion enchantment and was arguably his most valuable possession, at least under the present circumstances. Some years ago he had even magically shrunk it so that it wouldn't slip from his finger by accident, and hadn't removed it since.

Resolving to construct better magical wards around his quarters Cornelicus looked up at the sound of someone knocking lightly at his door. Calling out the usual permission he let the ashes scatter among the discarded papers crumpled in a dustbin by his desk. He slapped his palms together to clean them of the remaining ash and nodded a greeting to the elderly servant as he entered the room. A perpetual figure of deference, the man placed a tray with breakfast onto the last remaining empty corner of the desk, handing the Breton a pile of papers and then promptly proceeding to leave the room.

Idly stirring a cup of tea with a silver spoon, Cornelicus sifted through the letters and reports. His mood brightened somewhat - it seemed like his most recent investment was going to pay off very well indeed. There were still details and complications to be tended to, as a seemingly nonsensical coded letter informed him, but with his contacts, all it would take were a few unsavoury types and several sharp objects to settle the matter. He briefly considered employing the services of the Dark Brotherhood but decided against it. It didn't take much to make a Dunmer bleed and this time she wouldn't have the advantage of an open confrontation, he would make sure of that. He didn't even need to worry about tracking her down. He was sure that she would announce herself soon enough. Someone like Liallan couldn't just disappear for any significant length of time, and he had always been good at waiting.

While important, her removal was just one small part of a larger design, Cornelicus reminded himself. It wouldn't take long for the most important of his plans to bear fruit.

_They'll never know what hit them,_ Cornelicus thought with a brief twitch of his lips as his quill scratched away at the dry parchment.

The bleak sun ascended lazily through the sky, unmindful of the spider plotting away in his study.

xxx

The horse shied, sweat gleaming on its black sides as the short Bosmer on top tugged at the reins. Coming to a halt right in front of Liallan, he hastily pulled a wrinkled sheet out of a voluminous bag attached to the saddle and shoved it into her hands.

"Terrible news, the Emperor is dead! Here, read all about it!" With that, he pushed his poor mount back into motion and galloped away, the horse's hooves beating a steady rhythm into the dusty road.

It was just past midday, and already the news was on everyone's lips. As prone to overactive imagination as it was, the Black Horse Courier was nearly unmatched in speed and nosiness and had only needed a few hours to catch wind of Tamriel's newest tragedy, compile a report and set about distributing it. It was the third rider to have passed Liallan since she had left the Imperial City hours before, albeit the first one who had actually taken the time, however short, to stop and talk to her.

She glanced down at the sheet in her hands, skimming through the lines. The text was surprisingly frank and outspoken, simply providing a brief retelling of the late Uriel Septim VII's life and the mysterious manner in which it had come to an end. The Watch were assuring the citizens of Tamriel that the treacherous assassins would be caught and punished in no time at all and that the deceased Emperor would be able to rest in peace, wherever he was.

Grey nudged her hand with his muzzle and she ruffled the timber wolf's dark fur, smiling briefly at the canine. Golden eyes full of immeasurable loyalty and intelligence gazed back at her. Liallan resumed her steady walk down the Black Road, the wolf padding several strides ahead of her. After all this time, she still wasn't sure exactly how intelligent he was.

Grey, as she had so unimaginatively named him in honour of his fur the colour of nearly black ashes, had been her loyal companion for decades, his life bound to hers by powers she had no interest in comprehending. Secured by the fact that she had raised him since his birth and hadn't left him since, the bond was eternal and even death hadn't been able to keep the wolf from her side for long. Almost all the time, he had been her _only_ companion, and she would trust a wolf over a man, mer, or one of the beastfolk any day.

He was also nearly the only legacy she still had of the mistakes of her youth, but she had learned a long time ago not to think about that.

Liallan was walking through the Great Forest now. While having been cleared a long time ago to ease transport between Chorrol and the Imperial City, no other cities lay in that direction and it had fallen victim to neglect and was now a corridor of vast trunks with huge canopies. The foliage was once again invading onto the road - much to Liallan's gratitude, as she preferred to huddle in shadow rather than walk in the open, inviting any enthusiasts to rob and assault. While keeping to the shadowed trunks of the trees she reminded herself that she probably wasn't the only one trying to stay out of sight. Her palm brushed casually against the hilt of her sword - a thin, remarkably durable blade somewhat Akaviri in design - perfect for her hit-and-dodge style of fighting. At her other hip hung its twin, with a somewhat shorter reach and crafted from fine silver - an insurance against ghosts and anything else she wouldn't be able to kill with a normal weapon. A bow and a quiver of arrows were strapped to her back.

Having finally regained her possessions, Liallan was somewhat more confident. As planned, she had paid Cornelicus a visit during the night. The urge to just slit his throat and be done with it had been great and she certainly hadn't had any issues about the idea, but over the years Liallan had learned the importance of reason and cold hard logic. Fortunately for him, both had spoken in Cornelicus's favour. It was as Armand had said it - killing him would earn her more trouble than it would solve.

Her equipment had been locked in a chest in his study, which had hardly presented a problem. Far more trickier had been evading the traps he had set - fortunately she had donned her enchanted rings and amulet as soon as she had found them. That, along with her natural resistance to fire, had protected her from the traps she had set off.

Afterwards, Liallan had changed into her old attire, assured Armand that she needed to be away for a day or two and no, regretfully she couldn't stay to help them deal with the search for the assassins, at least not yet. She had then returned the fine clothing to Dynari and got out of there before the Imperial could notice the burns in the fabric.

Liallan was now wearing her armour again, a suit of light, hardened leather dyed to look like a messy assortment of dark red, dark blue and similarly dark green, with patches of black thrown in between. The armour was the second remembrance she had of her past - she had chosen to keep it simply because she had never found anything better. Draped around her shoulders was a dark, rather discoloured cloak that had obviously seen one rainfall too many. The handy amulet that reflected a fair portion of spells back to her opponents was once more hanging from her neck and several rings with various enchantments were on her fingers. There was hardly a piece of anything on her that wasn't enchanted in one way or another and the Dunmer found herself relying greatly on them.

While the useless death of the Emperor weighed heavily on her, at least Liallan was now in her element, in the deep woods where she had the upper hand. Coupled with the recovery of her equipment, that lifted her spirits significantly.

She fingered the Amulet of Kings in her pouch to check if it was still there. It was becoming an unnerving habit.

Liallan wondered exactly what she was getting into. She pondered the strange coincidence of her meeting the Emperor before his death. She shook her head, muttering an oath at the oddity of it all. Had she come into prison a day later, she would've missed the Emperor completely. Had it been a day earlier... Well, it may no longer have done her any good.

_Weynon Priory, east of Chorrol, where the supposed Grandmaster of the Blades lives undercover._ She'd be there soon. With luck she'd have a roof over her head by nightfall - hopefully the Blades would be hospitable in that regard, she didn't relish the notion of sleeping outside if it started to rain. And while she could always rent a room at one of the inns in Chorrol, Liallan's recent escape from prison left her with just a tinge of healthy paranoia.

While mer needed somewhat less sleep than human races - a quality that no doubt came in a set with their longevity - the last time she had closed her eyes was when she was lying unconscious in a dirty cell with a glob of pain for a head, over seventeen hours ago. She hoped to get a nap at the Priory before heading wherever she decided to go next. She'd probably head back to the Imperial City and help Armand an the others look for the assassins. While what had happened to the Emperor was none of her business, the Thieves Guild was.

The grimy sky overhead gave a low rumble and Liallan sighed, her spirits descending as rapidly as the raindrops from above. She liked rain. Rain was a good thing and the best noise in all the planes of the universe to fall asleep to, but not if you were caught in it.

Weynon Priory. It wasn't far, just a few more hours - a few more hours spent in what was likely to become a thunderstorm, with all the time in the world to contemplate the meaning of life as well as the lack of it, the whims of the Gods, the Daedra, and whatever other capricious forces were at work shaping the lives of mortals.

_I'll be fine,_ Liallan thought with a bleak smile, pulling the hood over her face as she crept closer to the shielding canopies of the trees.

It was beginning to rain in earnest.

xxx

Not too far away, two figures were crouching in the shrubs, their dripping cloaks seeming to melt into the muddy ground.

"Our service is truly a glorious one," murmured one of the figures, sniffling furiously.

"You will not come far if even such simple tasks are beyond your capabilities, boy," replied the other.

"It's not about the task, I just don't like rain - natural rain, I mean. The kind that looks like water dripping from the skies," he added hastily at the other's amused chuckle.

"I know what you mean, there is no need to impress me with your amazing literacy. I have no intention to babysit you throughout this night. You know what you must do. You've memorized the description. Remember, if the one matching it does show up, no heroics, you will not gain any favour with your inglorious death. You cannot take all of them on your own. You must return and alert your Brothers first."

"What if this isn't the place?"

"That changes the time, nothing else - it will still need to be cleansed, meaning you will need to sit here a while longer. We will not risk an attack until the first part of the plan is carried out."

"When will that happen?"

"You ask many questions. Remember that each of us only needs to know that which he needs to know."

"Heh."

"You may know this, though. It will be very soon. We've been provided with several very useful leads and have been following them for some time. From what I've heard of it, our goal has very nearly been located. You may not have to wait long at all."  
"That's good... I am pleased with the task assigned to me, but I cannot help but wish it were something more suited to my abilities."

"Every task needs completing and a great honour has been bestowed upon you. It is time you began recognising it as such, even under the circumstances," he added with a chuckle, gesturing at the ghastly wheather. "I will leave you now. May the Lord guide you."

"Same for you, honoured Brother. May we meet in Paradise..."

"..and bask in the Lord's glory. Farewell."

One of the figures carefully edged out of the bushes, throwing alert glances at the buildings that lay beyond. The man still hiding in the foliage sniffled again and sighed, hugging the already wet cloak tighter around himself. He returned his attentive gaze to the road, keeping an eye on the buildings for any new developments.

The night would be a long one, but the dawn that followed would surely be worth it.


	7. The Will of the Gods

Bells echoed through the room, sound reflecting off stone walls and pillars sweeping upwards to support the arched ceiling, nearly drowning out the sounds of speech. A figure stood at the altar, bathed in the cool light that filtered through the tall stained-glass windows to mix eerily with the cheerful illumination of candles. The figure paused, waiting for the bells to cease, then continued.

"I cannot say that it is the will of the Nine; for while the Gods watch over us, preserving this world, they do not determine its every moment. We must have faith and courage. Whatever changes this event will bring, as it is sure to happen, we will do our best and let the Gods do theirs. Our best hope now lies in working together and keeping a cool head. There are many who believe that the loss of our Emperor heralds a great crisis, yet it is such thinking and not the tragedy itself that could potentially lead to one. Many would deliberately seek to do so for their own selfish purposes, and while I doubt that any of them are among you today, I assure you it is a foolish notion and could only result in ruin. Whatever some of us may believe, chaos profits no one.

I do not know what fates have placed us in this predicament, but it is up to us to prevent such chaos. As it is, I strongly advise all of you to think carefully before making any rash decisions. Good people of Kvatch, I bid you a peaceful evening."

Martin stepped away from the altar, heaving a faint sigh. A few of the citizens were filing out of the chapel but most were staying to voice their concerns to the Gods through the altar of the One as well as the nine smaller altars lining the chapel periphery. More visitors than usual had come to the chapel this evening but it was hardly surprising. News of the Emperor's death had arrived late that morning, brought by several breathless couriers on even more breathless black horses. For once, the free paper that was sponsored by the Empire itself had had something worth reading.

The fact that the message had caused such an uproar among the citizens of Kvatch was not unexpected, either. The sensational way in which the Black Horse Courier presented it hardly helped. Not only the Emperor but every single one of his heirs had been assassinated on the same evening, barely hours apart. As far as everyone was concerned, the Septim line had been eliminated. Seeing as the royalty of Cyrodiil had been appointed to rule by the Nine Divines themselves when Akatosh had blessed the Septims with his Dragonblood, it hardly seemed a good omen that the Nine had allowed such a thing to happen. Had Tamriel fallen in disfavour with the Gods? Did they intend for the rule of the Septims to end? Furthermore, did the end of the Dragonborn mark the end of the Third Era just as Tiber Septim's reign had marked its beginning? People were already jumping to radical conclusions and being a priest, Martin couldn't readily blame them, though he preferred to believe the Nine wouldn't allow the deaths of four people simply as a means to an end.

"Brother Martin?" A young dark-haired Breton girl of no more than sixteen years had approached him and was staring at him with wide, slightly sceptical eyes. Rellia, a blacksmith's daughter, although in her constitution she had hardly taken after her father. He knew her just as he knew - by name and by face at the very least - nearly every citizen of Kvatch. A priest of Akatosh tended to meet people.

"Yes, my child?"

She blushed slightly at that, lowering her eyes.

"Er, I... I just... What you just said, did you mean that?"

"I did, every word," Martin assured her, honing his tone back into the benevolent confidence he always adapted during his speeches.

"You really believe everything will be alright? Some people are saying that since there's no emperor to rule us anymore, there might be a revolution, a war between the counties, the provinces even-"

"Trust me, Rellia, the only disaster that could happen is one of our own making. Do not forget that wars are started by people, regular people like you and me. Our responsibility is to try and preserve the peace - if everyone does so, there will be no war. We will settle this peacefully and adapt to whatever new order the Council elects for us."

"Alright..." the girl stammered, but her posture seemed a bit more confident now. "Thank you! Thank you for sharing this with me, Ma-... Brother Martin."

"Anytime at all. Good evening to you," Martin said with a faint smile - it always felt so rewarding to see doubts extinguished and faith restored. For some reason, the girl blushed, stammering a farewell and hurrying out of his sight. Martin shook his head. In the past few years it had become increasingly obvious that she was infatuated with him, a steady source of amusement for his fellow priests. Martin conceded that perhaps it was his fault - his way with people and his ready smiles _could_ be taken the wrong way, he supposed. He reassured himself that she would no doubt snap out of it in time to find a real love interest.

Martin's attention then turned to the other priest who had approached him - an Imperial like Martin, though several decades older, with streaks of grey in his reddish hair.

"You did well. They seem a lot calmer now," Brother Delwyn said quietly.

"You say that almost as if they are a flock of sheep needing to be steadied," Martin observed.

"Is such a comparison so out of place?" Delwyn murmured, giving Martin a penetrating look. "We both know people are prone to rash reactions in times of danger, crowding together, often against all logic and reason. Many of the citizens are naught but common folk, preferring to let the others think for them. They need exactly what people like us have to offer - a appeasing voice to steer their reasoning - or lack of such - in the right direction."

"People can think for themselves. If I didn't know you better, I'd call what you said a notion of arrogance," Martin said in a low voice.

"I prefer to call it responsibility. Think, Brother. They are calm now and will heed your advice well. But suppose you had instead called them to prepare for a time of changes and bloodshed, to sleep with one eye open and keep their weapons within reach at all times? How would they have reacted? You know the answer to that, I'm sure. Very soon, all the people of questionable morals you mistakenly claimed aren't in the Chapel right now as well as many others would have grabbed their weapons and tried to get the upper hand before the trouble even started. People would have grown fearful and paranoid and even mentioning a new order inside a tavern might have lead to bloodshed, simply because they would've been afraid of anything new. For all we know, it might still happen, but it has at least been postponed - simply because you - a single individual who is as prone to errors as the rest of us are - told them exactly what to believe."

Martin was silent, his brows furrowing slightly in response. He admitted half-heartedly that Brother Delwyn was right.

"You are young, Martin, and somewhat given to idealism. It is not unheard of," the Brother said with a wry, humourless smile. Martin didn't answer. He certainly didn't feel young. 'Youth' was a word he generally associated with the period of his life when he had made all of his greatest mistakes - he comforted himself that he was now past it.

"The way you put it, the whole town should rebel and slaughter each other as soon as a shipment of cakes from Skingrad fails to arrive, simply because it could be an omen of a greater crisis" Martin noted gloomily.

"Even I prefer to think the world isn't quite that hopeless," Delwyn responded with a chuckle. "Although I do wonder why you are so keen on portraying people better than they are. Good evening, Brother." With that, he took his leave.

_Because I need to believe that excluding the cold-blooded killers and murderous fanatics the citizens of the Empire are decent folk, _Martin said to himself. Making his way over to the shrine of Akatosh, he gave a bitter chuckle at the paradox of that thought. _I consider myself a good man, Gods forgive me. All these years, I have worked hard to be a good man and I certainly hope that I have achieved some measure of success. That alone should be enough proof that people aren't all black and white._

He knelt at the altar, his gaze halting briefly on the tall window that loomed above him, brilliantly glowing panes of coloured glass forming a likeness of the Dragon God of Time. He shut his eyes. Over the next minute, in his thoughts and the silently murmured words he called his patron to support and watch over the Empire.

Martin certainly didn't want to believe that the will of the Gods had anything to do with the death of the last Septims. After all, one of the Nine Divines was Tiber Septim himself, ascended after his death to become Talos, the Hero-God of War and Governance.

Standing up again, he suddenly felt some sort of presence, like a prick at his consciousness. Turning around, Martin saw a young Bosmer walking towards him and appearing distinctly uncomfortable. As the Wood Elf came to stand before him, it became obvious why; while it had been undistinguishable in the crowd of other citizens, up close there was no way Martin could fail to recognise it. The Bosmer had an aura of wrongness clinging to him like a bad smell, one easy to notice for a priest of the Divines. Furthermore, it was one that was very typical of the worshippers of the more malevolent Daedric Lords.

Martin tensed. While he wasn't about to charge the mer with a sword he had no idea what he would be looking for in a chapel of Akatosh.

"What is your business here?" he demanded.

"You are Brother Martin, correct?" the Bosmer asked.

'Yes, that's me," Martin confirmed, somewhat puzzled at how excited the Bosmer suddenly appeared.

"I'm glad I finally found you. I have come to ask for your help. My friend and travelling companion is injured. I left her not far from the town with another one of our party to watch over her. I wanted to make sure she would be safe if we brought her here for healing."

Martin hesitated. He was not sure that he wanted to help a follower of the Daedra, yet if they could brave coming in here, surely they couldn't be that evil...

"Would it not be simpler to buy her a healing potion?"

"Er, no. We've already tried potions, somehow it doesn't do her any good. I was hoping a priest might help."

"You are a follower of the Daedra. Why not turn to your Lord for help?" Martin asked, watching the Bosmer carefully. The mer looked startled, panic visible in his expression, but seemed to relax when he realised Martin wasn't about to attack him.

"We have.. er... fallen out of favour. That wouldn't be such a good idea, I think," he stammered.

Martin eyed him sceptically. He wasn't certain what he had been told was the truth, but if it was... Daedra worship gone wrong was a situation he could certainly sympathise with. He nodded.

"If you bring your friend here, we will do all that is in our power to help her. You will not be harmed."

"Er... Could you be the one to heal her?"

"Why me?" Martin asked sharply.

"I... After your speech, I thought you would be the best person to do it... So, would you be willing to heal my friend if I brought her here tomorrow morning?"

"Certainly. I'm not going anywhere," Martin sighed.

"Good," the Bosmer said, brightening visibly. "I'll be seeing you later, then," he added with a somehow chilling smile and backed away, promptly leaving the Chapel.

Martin stared after him, not knowing what to think. Some part of him whispered that he had made a mistake of some sort, yet he couldn't fathom what kind... All he had promised was that the Bosmer's friend wouldn't be harmed and that he would be here to heal her in the morning. What was the worst thing that could happen?

Martin still couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness as he left the Chapel to get a bit of fresh air. Making his way around a few of the civilians he descended the gradually sloping steps...

...and froze, his breath stopping in his throat.

_Blood red skies stretched over his head and the scent of burning wood and flesh filled his nostrils. Prayers, oaths, inhuman roars and screams of despair echoed in his ears. Kvatch was burning, walls crumbling down in an avalanche of ash, chipped wood and collapsing stones. The charred and bloody ground was littered with corpses. Monstrous creatures were cutting down the shrieking survivors, leaving the once humanoid civilians crumpled masses of bloody meat and severed limbs... A gap in the wall, as if the stone had simply been erased from existence, revealed a gateway to hell itself..._

Martin drew a ragged breath as a hand seized his shoulder and suddenly he was looking into the face of a very concerned Brother Delwyn.

"...Martin? Martin! Answer me, for Akatosh's sake! Are you alright?"

Martin looked around in a bewildered way. The buildings were sound, not a single flame in sight. Men, mer and beastfolk were making their way through the plaza. An old beggar sat with his back against the statue of Akatosh. Kvatch was whole, a peaceful city like any other under Nirn's blue sky.

"Yes! Yes, I'm alright," he stammered when Delwyn gave him a slight shake to recapture his attention. The Imperial just raised a quizzical eyebrow, frowning slightly.

"Brother, I have seen my share of corpses in the service of our God, and half of them looked better than you. Let's get you to the undercroft."

"I'm fine, I just need some air," Martin protested, carefully breaking free of Delwyn's grasp. The last thing he wanted right now was being fussed over by another person. "I've been indoors for too long. I got lightheaded for a moment."

Brother Delwyn didn't look convinced, but shrugged.

"If you say so. Otherwise, you know where to find me."

Conscious of Delwyn's concerned gaze following him, Martin nodded and walked away from the Chapel, heading in no particular direction. He stopped at the entrance to some garden or other, staring at the perfect green leaves and bright flowers in marvel. The sky was showing the first signs of dusk now, turning a somewhat orange hue, but it was a natural one that rang of peace, not the crimson sky streaked with lightning he had glimpsed moments ago...

Martin breathed deeply, half-convinced that the strange vision really had been a product of too much time spent in the sultry quarters beneath the Chapel. Too many strange things had occurred during the day and he had a gnawing feeling that it was far from the end of it. Delwyn was right - whatever he had said in the chapel in front of the people of Kvatch had only been wishful thinking, notions of idealism. One way or another, change was upon the world of Tamriel and its citizens.

Falling asleep later that night, Martin reassured himself that at the very least, they would have time to cope and adjust to the changes. As his eyelids fell shut with exhaustion, he welcomed the idea of losing himself to sleep and the quiet, restful oblivion that came with it.

He prayed that the night would be a peaceful one.


End file.
